


Some Sad Way

by Kalr



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexuality, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Social Anxiety, lore expansion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalr/pseuds/Kalr
Summary: On one of the worst nights of Dwight's life he meets a stranger in the woods.





	1. Three

Dwight has had numerous conversations in his head with people who render his preparation moot by never giving him the time of day. He fleshes out interactions mentally, goes over every angle, makes sure he's ready for any instance of introduction or conflict or small talk. 

In reality, Dwight doesn't talk so well. He blanks on every anxious self-assurance he's ever given himself. He stutters, mispronounces words as if they're too heavy for his mouth. He doesn't know why. Never has.

Being invited to the company camp-out is both a horrifying and exhilarating prospect. It's mandatory for all office employees, but the boss made sure to extend him an invitation personally. Dwight is thankful to be spoken to outside of being asked to make his coworkers coffee or run other-such errands that are far beneath his job title.

They ask him because he always says yes, and it's nice to be needed, even if their appreciation is factitious. It's not like he has anything better to do. Staying late in an empty office-building to play catch-up with his work is preferable to an empty apartment. Even the extra piles of paperwork dumped on his desk don't induce anger, just defeat—minor hope that maybe this time the favor will go appreciated. Maybe he'll be invited out for a drink that he'll smile and decline, the offer warming his heart enough to make the next day worth trudging through. Heck, the last time someone seemed genuinely thankful it made Dwight's whole _month_.

It is both beyond disheartening and also incredibly _home_ to him, that he's sitting around a campfire with a flock of coworkers that he knows so much about—their personal lives, the names of their children, the interests of their significant others, the on-goings of their pets—but who know nothing about him. They've never asked. At least six of them flounder if they're ever forced to address him by name. Some avoid it altogether. 

“I cannot believe how empty it is out here, like I can't even see the city's skyline,” one of the guys from the tech department laments. Carter. Twenty-two years old. Likes Frisbee. 

Of course the city can't be seen from their location. It makes sense even to someone like Dwight, who has never been camping before in his life.

They had all driven in a rented charter bus two hours out of the city, and then hiked an hour and a half through slews of brittle fall leaves into the wilderness owned by his boss's family. The clearing they decided to settle in is surrounded by trees that look like they have gone undisturbed for decades. Dwight supposes that's what happens when someone is rich enough to afford acres and acres of land that they don't have plans for. 

The sun is starting to sink lower into the sky, sunset glowing pink and orange through the trees. The group burned most of their remaining daylight on setting up tents and building a fire, and they're just beginning to settle into their fold-out chairs. Dwight is sitting in the grass and dirt between a large gap between two chairs in the circle around the fire. He was so concerned with scrambling to purchase a tent and necessary supplies that the thought of bringing a folding chair hadn't been on his radar. 

It had even taken an embarrassing call to his mother to ask what supplies he would need on a weekend camping trip—she had been incredulous, spent more than fifteen minutes drilling him about how impossible it was that he had never been on a camping trip before. That he must have had one in his youth. With his friends. He hadn't. Didn't have friends. He didn't get invitations to birthday parties, let alone something as intimate as a camping trip. He'd told her so, gently, embarrassed. She had dropped the topic with a sigh and an assurance that he probably just didn't remember.

So here he is, disgracefully sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, unprepared. Struggling to listen to his coworkers talk amongst themselves. Usually he's happy to listen. Happy to learn more about the people he interacts with five days a week at work. But the feeling of not belonging is heavier than usual, and he finds himself picking at the grass, regretting showing up to get on that charter bus at six in the morning.

He's going to be stuck here. For the whole weekend. Barely socially stable. His boss is breaking out alcohol—moonshine. A family recipe, apparently. Dwight's never drank in his twenty-six year existence. For once he hopes he goes overlooked.

“Hey, Dwight,” Linda, an accountant, says as she drops down to sit next to him on the ground. “Nice shoes.”

Dwight looks down at his formal black work loafers, no longer shiny, covered in streaks of flaking mud. 

“Ah, yeah,” he says, perking up a bit and sounding too friendly even to his own ears. “Brad Thacher and his buddies already teased me about it. In my haste to buy camping gear, I completely forgot about appropriate outdoor attire.”

Linda smiles, eyes crinkling sadly. She's one of his only coworkers who goes out of her way to be nice to him. She feels sorry for him; she doesn't think he knows. But he spends most of his time listening to others and tending to their needs in a conversation. Of course he can recognize pity on another person's face.

“Hiking boots!” Dwight says, laughing off Linda's hesitation to reply. He probably shouldn't have mentioned Brad. “So simple, and yet...”

“About Brad, I'm sorry, he can be—“

“No, no,” Dwight cuts her off. “It's fine, really. The teasing wasn't mean-spirited. I'm fine, it's fine.”

It's not a lie. The teasing doesn't feel good, though. It seems like it's more for the benefit of Brad's posse than for an excuse to have some fun with Dwight. It's definitely at his expense. But it's not bad. Not like it could be, not like it has been at other times in Dwight's life. Brad thinks Dwight is too pathetic to notice that they're laughing at him under the pretense of laughing with him. Of course he knows. Look at him, he's been the punchline of this behavior for as long as he can remember.

Linda gives him that look like she knows better—she knows Brad is a jerk and feels sorry for Dwight because she thinks he doesn't know. But he does. It's okay. He can take it. He would tell her so, but they're not close and he doesn't make the mistake of oversharing anymore.

“The weather said rain,” Dwight offers for a change of topic. The weather. A classic.

“Oh, you know, I forgot to check it.”

“Yeah. Thunderstorms. Bad ones. Probably not the best weekend for a camping trip, but...”

“I told the boss,” Roger the receptionist pipes up from the chair closest to Dwight. “He didn't care. I'm hoping like hell that no big-ass trees fall on us in the night.”

“Hopefully just leaves and thin branches,” Dwight replies—it's easy when other people initiate. He stops worrying about being uninteresting and just goes with the flow. “If we have any minor injuries, I brought a first-aid kit.”

Linda laughs. “You remembered band-aids, but not hiking boots?” Her humor is genuine, like she finds his ineptitude endearing. 

Dwight grins, can't seem to form a reply. He shrugs, unable to look anywhere but the grass.

“Hey Fairfield,” a familiar voice calls, a paper cup in his hand.

“Hi, Brad,” Dwight replies, mood dwindling to neutrality. At least Brad knows his name. Or at least half of it. 

Linda makes an annoyed sound next to him. 

“Dude, you have to try this,” Brad shoves the paper cup towards Dwight. The liquid inside is clear.

“The boss's moonshine?” Dwight asks, pointlessly. Of course.

“Yeah,” he replies, and then louder, over his shoulder, “Guys, wouldn't it be hilarious to see Fairfield drunk? I can't even picture it.”

There are several hoots and hollers and a brief round of applause. Bill the project manager shouts _who the fuck is Fairfield?_ He sounds drunk already. Several people think he's joking. He's not.

Dwight lowers his voice, treads gently, “You know, uh, no thanks. I don't usually... alcohol doesn't really sit well with me.”

“Oh come on, it's a camping trip, it's supposed to be fun.” 

Several others shout in agreement.

The attention of half the office weighs on him, dozens of eyes, all staring. It's suffocating. Not fun. He attempts to speak and fails several times, a spluttering engine.

“If Dwight doesn't want it, I'll take it,” Linda cuts in, just to save him, Dwight is sure because he knows she doesn't drink either. Her mother was an alcoholic. 

Brad frowns at her. “But we want to see Fairfield drunk—think about it—he's always so uptight. It'll be great.”

“C'mon, can't I have it?” Linda asks in a slippery sweet tone that Dwight knows is forced. She makes the mistake of reaching for the cup, assuming Brad will give in. Brad pulls the cup out of her reach as if burned.

“No,” he says, firmly. Angry. “This is for Fairfield.”

Linda's expression is outright suspicious now, her voice scathing. “Dwight said _no thank you_ , Brad.”

“Don't be such a bitch, Linda.”

Linda stands, looking ready to punch Brad squarely in the face.

The whole situation escalates too quickly. Dwight stands too, steps in front of Linda. “Okay, I'll take it. Thanks, Brad.”

Brad hesitates to process the situation for only a moment before smirking and handing over the cup.

Everyone is looking at him, so Dwight sits back down and takes a drink. It's awful, and he struggles to swallow. His co-workers nearly fall out of their chairs laughing as he wipes his face with his tie. 

“You didn't have to do that,” Linda hisses under her breath.

Dwight mouths a silent _thank you_ to her, shoots her a sympathetic look. He takes two more drinks before people stop egging him on and generally lose interest.

Dwight doesn't remember the rest of the night.

*  
*  
*

He wakes up with his head pounding, sputtering in the mud. Drowning in rainwater.

He's in the middle of the forest. Right. The camping trip. He can't remember going to sleep. He can't remember anything past staring down at his mostly full cup of moonshine. It's pitch black, the trees are straight shadowy masses towering out of the ground all around him. He's not in the clearing anymore. Not a soul in sight. 

It was late evening, the sun barely beginning to drain out of the sky when Brad had offered him the cup.

Disoriented, he hoists himself into a sitting position, his clothes soaked through, the rain pounding through the thick leaves to pelt against his skin in an angry onslaught. His glasses are still on his face, thank goodness, but they're near useless, fogging up from his increasing pulse where they aren't already dripping rainwater.

In a moment of clarity through the panic, Dwight remembers the watch strapped to his wrist. It illuminates with the push of a button. The time and date displays in front of him. Three in the morning, the not even twenty-four hours since the start of the camping trip. That's a relief. At least he hasn't lost an entire day, just a handful of hours. 

How did he get out here? Did he wander out into the woods, completely drunk, blacked out? He had only had three sips of the moonshine.

The mud is slick and pooling into diluted puddles at his feet, the ground unable to keep up with the rain, not absorbing it quickly enough. He pivots in circle after circle. Identical trees, no sign of life or light on all sides. No sound but his pulse hammering erratically against the rain.

He had only had three sips of the moonshine.

On shaky feet and shakier breath, Dwight picks a direction and walks. He needs to find a clearing, needs to see the stars to determine which way is north. Pray he can even make out the stars through the storm-clouds. Shoot.

This. This isn't good.

He had only had three sips.


	2. Seaweed

Dwight picks a direction and sloshes through the forest for nearly an hour before he throws his back against a tree and gasps for breath, clutching uselessly at the deep pain in his side from physical exertion. The rain has dwindled, remnants of the storm dripping from the thick foliage above him to land cold on his shivering shoulders. Heavy rain this late into autumn is rare, and the air was already chilly without his clothes soaked through on top of everything.

He honestly thinks he might die of hypothermia. His breath is coming in thick, loud whines chopped to bits by chattering teeth. No matter how much he rubs at his arms they don't warm. At some point he removed his useless, dripping glasses and hooked the ear through a belt loop—he grasps for them now with shaky fingers, unfolding them and wiping at them with the hem of his soaked shirt. The lenses are smudged, but when the glasses are back on his face he can better make out the solid, looming silhouettes of tree trunks.

The whole time he was walking he would jump at every slight movement out of his peripheral vision, any trick of the light that spooked his fight or flight response. At times he dashed through the trees, fearing a perceived threat that he couldn't see but knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, wasn't there—because he was alone miles into the middle of the wilderness, nothing to harm him but cold and desertion.

He has no supplies, no idea which way he needs to head. Doesn't know if he'll freeze to death in a puddle if he stops now to attempt sleep, hoping for better luck finding his way in daylight.

Pathetic. He's pathetic. Like always. Why hadn't he just stayed home?

“This isn't happening,” he mutters to himself, burying his face in his hands, sliding his fingers under his glasses, skewing them. “This isn't happening.”

He's not sure if he's rocking back and fourth because of cold or panic, but it soothes him some. 

“Hello?” A voice—a man's voice—booms from somewhere off in the distance.

Dwight freezes. It's four in the morning. Pitch black. Middle of the night. Middle of the woods. He has to be hearing things.

“Hey! Where are you?” the voice calls again.

That time the words cut through Dwight, seizing his body in fear. Dwight swears he doesn't recognize the voice. It's definitely not one of his coworkers looking for him. 

Middle of the woods. Four in the morning. Miles out. Not imagining it. Not hearing things.

“Hello?!” This time the stranger sounds annoyed. 

Running on instinct, Dwight drops down to crouch behind the tree, hiding. He tries hard to organize his frantic thoughts to figure out why he's so afraid. He can't think of a good reason someone would be all the way out here at this hour just after a storm. 

Through the blood pounding in his ears Dwight can make out barely perceptible footsteps somewhere off to his left, near the direction he had just come from. Whoever is out there is used to moving through the woods—he's barely making a sound. Dwight probably wouldn't hear him at all if it weren't for the puddles littering the underbrush.

“My name's Jake,” the man calls, voice reluctant, closer this time. Dwight doesn't dare peek around the tree. “I own property near here.”

Why does this guy sound so irritated, like he's being inconvenienced? Is it even possible that he owns some acres of land out here? Dwight doesn't see why not. Maybe this person got caught out in the rain during a hike. Maybe he heard Dwight's awful, loud gasping and frustrated tears. Isolated and lost as he believed he was, Dwight hadn't exactly tried to stay quiet.

What should he do? He's hiding behind a tree like a mouse. The guy already sounds insulted by his refusal to reply.

“I heard you. I know you're there. I can offer some assistance.” The man—Jake—is closer now; Dwight has a feeling Jake knows exactly where he is and is simply trying not to startle him. Trying to give him some choice about whether or not he wants to be rescued or wants to stay cowering in the woods alone. “...Or not. My home is directly south of here. Five minutes walk. If you need anything, knock.”

The man pauses only a moment before he starts to walk away, presumably towards where he claims to live. Dwight bolts upright without thinking much about it.

“W-Wait! I—” He stumbles out from behind the tree he was cowering behind, utterly embarrassed. 

The man is standing a few feet from him, moonlight seeping through the trees to fall over his slightly hunched figure. Dwight can barely make out the guy's expression: thoroughly unimpressed. 

Sh.. Shoot.

“I'm sorry, I was...” Dwight approaches the man sheepishly until he's at a conversational distance. “Afraid.”

The man—Jake, Jake, Jake—just stares in response, flashlight loose in his hand, beam pointing at the mud, probably illuminating the area just enough to expose Dwight's flushed face.

“I seem to have,” Dwight searches for the right word, finds nothing, “...lost my group. Company camping trip. We were... camping out here. Not sure where I am now.”

Jake assesses him for what feels like forever, jet black hair dripping onto his stony features. He's wearing a faded orange windbreaker, cargo pants, boots that look like they're made of soft leather.

“I've been walking for over an hour now, trying to find... my way back. Anything.” Dwight babbles under pressure, and Jake's stare is beyond unnerving. “You, I guess. Is what I found. Who I found. I found you—or you found me, and now—uh. Sorry.” He cuts himself off before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. It doesn't help that he's audibly shivering.

“The main road's about ten minute's walk from where I live,” Jake says flatly, unperturbed by Dwight's floundering. “From there, it's about an hour and a half's walk to the nearest gas station. I have a satellite phone you could use to call somebody.”

Call somebody. Somebody. 

Dwight's mother lives two states over. Every other living soul he interacts with is out in the woods on a camping trip that he wound up miles away from after drinking three sips of moonshine. His coworker's cells won't have service even if they broke the team-bonding-experience rules to bring them. He doesn't want to see his coworkers again. Probably ever. Doesn't want to know why he ended up deserted in the middle of the woods. Doesn't want to think about it.

“I'm offering to let you use my phone,” Jake repeats in response to Dwight's silence.

Call somebody. 

“I,” the words freeze in his mouth, he chokes on them briefly, struggles to settle his breathing. “I don't. Have anyone to call.” It's a fact he's lived with for his whole life, it shouldn't be so hard to admit. It usually isn't.

Jake is quiet for a long moment in which Dwight struggles not to break down sobbing from exhaustion, from the loneliness of what he just admitted to a stranger in the woods, from the absurdity and confusion of the entire situation.

“Alright.” Jake's tone softens just perceptibly. His face is still serious. “What do you want to do?”

_Curl up in a ball and die_ , Dwight thinks. He can't speak.

Jake looks him over. Dwight's exterior must be betraying some of his thoughts. God. He's a mess.

“Okay,” Jake says as if Dwight's silence had answered him. The word is sure and firm and comforting. “Let's get you to my trailer. We can figure something out after you stop shivering.”

The word _we_ rings in Dwight's head. Jake waits for only a second before nodding his head towards what must be south and taking off in that direction.

Dwight hesitates, then follows, feeling small.

*   
*  
*

Jake doesn't talk on the five minute walk to his mobile home in the middle of the woods. Acres of mowed grass and sparse trees spread out around the tiny home. There's an unlit fire pit out back with only one log for seating. Rows of raised land bear sprouting crops in the distance, not enough to call the land a farm, but enough to know someone takes raising vegetables very seriously.

When the man said he owned land Dwight had assumed that perhaps he had some sort of cabin for vacationing—but everything about the trailer and its surroundings suggests that it's home to this person.

“You really live all the way out here?” Dwight asks, impressed.

Jake just grunts and leads him up a few wooden steps to the mobile home's front door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. “Rather not track rain and mud inside. If you don't mind, I could bring you a change of clothes.”

Teeth chattering, Dwight nods. “Right—yeah, that's fine.”

Nodding, Jake lifts his leg to strip off his boots, tossing them aside on the porch. Next comes his windbreaker, and then his fingers are working on unbuttoning the flannel beneath. 

Dwight swivels to give the man some privacy, clutching at the wooden railing encasing the small porch and not quite understanding why the situation embarrasses him. Probably the intimacy. Dwight's never even been close enough with an acquaintance to undress in front of them. Yet this stranger strips right down—presumably to his underwear—without hesitation. 

The door squeaks open and closed and Dwight finally turns back around to find an empty porch and a pile of sodden clothes.

Awkwardly, Dwight loosens his tie and hangs it over the railing. He dumps his belt and shoes on the porch. He can't bring himself to go any further.

After a bit Jake pokes his head out the door, clad in a dry tank top and loose fitting shorts. Pajamas. He offers Dwight a stack of clothes and towels. 

“Just come in when you're done.” He shuts himself inside the trailer before Dwight can thank him.

The whole situation brings back awful memories of changing in school locker rooms. How horrible and embarrassed he felt being forced to undress in front of a bunch of guys who hated his guts and told him so every day. Who, if he had the nerve to hide in a bathroom stall to change, threw open soda bottles and god-knows what else over the top of the stall. 

He feels naked before he even starts taking off his clothes, standing alone on that small porch, surrounded by open space, night sky, and a thick treeline in the distance. A paranoid glance at the now-lit windows along the trailer tells Dwight that he's not being spied on, that this Jake person isn't waiting inside to laugh at him the moment he unbuttons his shirt.

“Pathetic,” Dwight mutters to himself. This Jake guy is trying to help him, and Dwight is so messed up he can't even trust someone that may have honestly saved his life tonight. There's no telling whether or not Dwight would have found the road before freezing, or starving, or falling down a ditch. 

He strips and dries himself hastily, wondering how the heck someone is being so kind to him, knowing that the kindness is only temporary. Because Jake hasn't spent enough time with Dwight to find him repulsive yet. To see what everyone else sees in him.

Everyone dislikes him eventually. Everyone. And soon this stranger's indifference will dissolve away into something worse.

Dwight is sheepishly slipping into the trailer before he even registers what clothes he put on. A soft, well-worn tee-shirt with some sort of pink cartoon lion on it and a pair of flannel pajama paints. This guy sure owns a lot of flannel. 

“Over here,” Jake calls, hearing the door.

The trailer is less claustrophobic than Dwight would have assumed. Cabinets line the walls of a kitchen area to his immediate left, which includes a diner-style booth table. It's clean, not at all cluttered like one might expect with such limited space. Sparse. Minimalist. Lonely.

The living room is through a door-frame to the right. Jake's sitting on the couch, which looks worn but comfortable, like everything in the trailer, like the clothes Jake gave him. There's no television, no electronics; space that might have been dedicated to such things is instead filled with bookshelves packed to the brim with fraying spines.

There's a portable radiator pointing towards the side of the couch Jake left open for Dwight. Thankful, Dwight sits and unabashedly holds his chilled fingers out to let the machine warm them.

He may accidentally groan in satisfaction. “God, that feels good.” He sighs, relaxing for the first time since he woke up in the middle of the woods. Maybe for the first time in his life.

Jake's mouth twinges at the corner, but he says nothing.

“I'm really sorry for the trouble.” A thought strikes him, and his eyes widen in horror. “Does anyone else live here? I'm not intruding, am I?”

“Just me.”

“Oh—okay.” 

Maybe Dwight should be creeped out by this man of few words who resides apparently completely isolated in the middle of nowhere—but instead he's almost comforted. Dwight's life is not so different—it is certainly a life of complete isolation, even if he does have forced social interactions at work.

“Do you, do you live off of the land?” Dwight asks.

“Sort of. I do a few trips up to the town for supplies when I need to.”

“Ah.” Dwight's smiling, unsure how he's capable of it right at this moment. In a regretful lapse of judgment and foresight, he blurts, “Thanks for saving my life.”

Jake snorts. “Don't know if I did that.”

“I doubt being lost in the wilderness would have turned out well for me, with my luck.”

“Then I'm glad I found you.”

Something about the matter-of-fact, casual way Jake says it makes Dwight's face heat. For just one moment, Dwight allows himself to believe that someone actually cares whether or not he lives or dies. Even if it is a complete stranger.

“Are you sure you don't mind me being here? I could try calling a cab on your phone—”

“I don't expect cabs will come all the way out here.”

“You're probably right.”

“I can drive you,” Jake offers around a sigh. “Where do you live?”

“The city.” 

Jake makes a face. 

“Yeah, I know, it's far.”

“City's about three hours from here,” Jake runs a hand through his damp hair. His eyes are a deep brown, the skin around them slightly purpled, a bit puffy, like he has a lot of sleepless nights.

“I'm really, really sorry for the inconvenience,” Dwight says, biting his lip. “I think I may be able to hike it up the road to the nearest gas station and get a cab from there, if I get some water and rest first.”

“Oh.” Jake blinks, expression shifting to vague embarrassment. “I haven't offered you food and water. Are you hungry?”

Dwight quickly backtracks, “No, I—I didn't mean to offer myself anything!”

“You didn't. I'm not used to having guests. Company. Anyone here, ever.” Jake supplies, seeming oddly unabashed at what, to Dwight, would be an excruciatingly embarrassing admission.

“I understand,” Dwight says a little too quickly, causing Jake to raise an eyebrow. Instead of just leaving it at that, Dwight blunders on, “I live alone too. I don't have any friends either—shoot—not that I think you don't have friends but—”

Jake just searches his face with growing disgruntlement during the little rant, until finally he reaches over and cuts Dwight off with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it's alright,” he says, and then, “I'll get you some water.”

Jake stands without another word and walks to the other side of the trailer, out of sight.

Dwight tries his best to breathe before Jake is back, handing him a cup. Dwight takes it, drinking with hands shaking from nerves, not the cold.

“How about you stay the night, and I'll drive you back in the morning?” Jake proposes, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms. “I can take you back tonight, if you really want. But it's a long drive and I'm not sure that's the best idea. I'm pretty tired. Haven't slept yet tonight. Not been getting much the past few weeks anyhow.”

“That's... yeah,” Dwight blinks up at him, hiding his amazed and probably embarrassingly touched expression with the water cup. “If, if you're really okay with me staying the night, then yeah. That's fine. I'm grateful.” 

It's not like Dwight wants to go back home to face his real life. Face the question of why he woke up abandoned in the woods after three sips of moonshine.

“No worries, no problem,” Jake says, lips flitting into an unmistakable smile that he tries to stifle by chewing his lip and dropping his gaze to the floor.

Dwight's stuck staring at Jake in wide-eyed shock, because whatever usually stoic demeanor this man maintains is cracking at—at—what? His desire to help Dwight? Certainly the man isn't warmed by Dwight's fumbling responses.

Heart racing and face hot, Dwight forces himself to stare at the cup of water in his lap.

“You can take the couch. Or, wherever, really. Floor, counter, table, I don't care. I'll bring you blankets.” And Jake is off again, disappearing to retrieve another kindness Dwight doesn't deserve.

Absurdly, Dwight feels like he's being mothered. Though Jake's certainly being kind, the man doesn't seem at all friendly, just calm. Matter-of-fact.

The slight hesitation that Jake carries in his actions makes Dwight swell with curiosity and the buzzing warmth of feeling cared for. Jake must have been telling the truth when he said he never has company, the guy seems almost on the edge of curiosity, repressed eagerness at the prospect of human contact, all buried under an oppressive layer of nonchalance. 

Dwight has no idea what to make of that. This. This stoic man living in the middle of the woods who cautiously seems to bask in helping a hapless stranger.

It's all almost enough to make Dwight forget about how much he doesn't want to ever go back to the office again. Doesn't want to return to his meager apartment, his life. Doesn't want to be anywhere but right here, feeling this way, ever again.

And on some level he's aware of how overly sappy he can get, how quickly attached to the faintest hint of being treated like he's _worth something_ , because when Jake returns with a stack of bed-things, Dwight remembers not to look too enamored. Or at least he tries.

“I'm going to have some food before bed,” Jake says, tone back to being all business as he dumps the pile of blankets and pillows onto the couch. “If you want to join me.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” Dwight stands up to follow a bit too fast, forcing Jake to edge around him out the doorway. 

Dwight feels silly tailing behind Jake like a puppy, following him into the kitchen area and slipping into the bench at the table while Jake opens a lid on a rice cooker and scoops piles of soft white rice into a bowl.

“I have other food you're welcome to,” Jake says, setting the bowl of rice and an open container filled with crispy-looking thin sheets of dark green _something_ in the middle of the table. He lowers himself on the bench opposite Dwight, half-leaning over the table, legs tucked under himself on the seat. “But you should try this.”

“Sure—what is it?” Dwight watches as Jake lifts a small sheet of the paper-like green stuff and scoops some rice into it with a spoon. 

“Just rice and roasted seaweed paper—it's the stuff they use to wrap sushi.” Jake offers Dwight the rice wrapped in seaweed paper, and Dwight takes it, feeling the rough yet slightly oily texture of the seaweed paper.

“Ah—that makes sense, it's usually not brittle like this in sushi though, right?” 

“Right.”

Dwight takes a bite of the make-shift roll while Jake scoops more rice onto another sheet for himself and pretends not to watch for Dwight's reaction.

The paper on the outside is strong tasting and deliciously salty, and the rice inside is warm and soft. The roll doesn't last long, and Dwight's licking seaweed flavored salt off of his fingers by the time he's done with it.

“Wow—I didn't expect to like that after one bite,” Dwight gushes, honestly. “Since I'm not used to the taste of seaweed paper, but that's really good.” 

Jake does that thing again where he fights back a smile. “It's a comfort food. Something simple my mother used to give my brother and me.”

Dwight just hums in acknowledgment, too busy messily scooping more rice into a sheet of seaweed paper and practically inhaling it. 

Jake snorts, presumably at Dwight's eagerness. “You must have been starving.”

“Mn,” Dwight swallows a mouthful. “If there's anything that can bring a man back from drowning in a puddle and almost starving to death, it's this stuff.” 

This time Jake allows the smile to stick, even if it is small and more curious than amused. 

They eat in silence for a while, mostly because Dwight is too busy stuffing his face to babble.

When he's finally eaten enough to feel full, Dwight sucks the sesame and seaweed and salt oils from his fingers and asks, “So what were you doing out in the woods that late anyway?”

Oddly, the question seems to sober Jake, his pleasant expression dissolving back into his default impassivity. After a moment of deliberation he leans across the bench to dig through the neat stack of papers and books at the far end of the table. Retrieving a folded newspaper, he slides it over to Dwight.

It only takes quick scrutiny of the front page to determine what Jake wants him to look at—there the headline is, bold and frightening: MISSING PERSON.

There's a black and white photo of a pouty-faced woman with braided hair, holding up some sort of award. The newspaper is a local one that belongs to the nearby town of Wetherfield, dated about a month ago. Her name is Megan Thomas.

Dwight looks up from the article, eyes questioning. 

“That girl used to jog down the road near here all the time. Saw her occasionally when I'm up that way.” Jake's tone is grave as he scratches idly at the wooden tabletop. “She stood out because folks don't usually come this far out, not on foot. I guess her mother lived in town.”

Dwight glances back down at the article, skimming it for any information on why she went missing. Doesn't seem like anyone knows, just that she had gone for a jog and never returned.

“So... you were out looking for her?” Dwight asks, feeling uneasy. 

Jake shrugs. “It's been bugging me.”

“Have there been search parties and stuff?”

“Yeah, but none that showed up around here. Too far out, I guess,” he shrugs again, sighs. “But I know she passed by here sometimes, never into the woods, but up on the main road.” 

“Did you actually know her, like, personally?”

“Nope. Never spoke a word to her. Not sure she would recognize me.”

“Recognize you as the guy that lives in the woods that passes her by in his truck sometimes?”

Jake just grunts, reluctantly amused.

“This is scary though—knowing something like this happened so close to you. What do you think happened to her?”

“No idea. But I've had a weird feeling since she disappeared.”

Dwight would laugh if the topic wasn't creeping him out so much—he wouldn't have pegged Jake for the superstitious type.

“It's odd,” Jake says without prompting, “I've always felt really comfortable out here alone. At peace. But things seem different lately. Eerie. Uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. It's giving me the creeps just thinking about what could have happened to her.” Dwight wraps his arms around himself, as if in protection from some invisible enemy. “It's the not-knowing that's the worst.”

Jake hums, visibly lost in thought. “This sounds... weird, so don't laugh—“

“Never,” Dwight assures.

“I've been having random bad feelings about the woods for a month now, for no apparent reason.” He stops, pausing to consider his words, possibly considering if he even wants to tell Dwight the next part. “But... I only learned about her disappearance a week ago.”

“Wait, what? That's—“

“Yeah. Sounds ridiculous, but like I said I don't go into town much. Only got the newspaper a week ago, and there the headline is. Missing girl, disappeared a month ago, right around when I started feeling uneasy out in the trees.”

The whole thing is beyond eerie, and Dwight has trouble coming up with a response, feeling frozen by the strange implications. It's like he's listening to some disturbing campfire ghost story.

“Sorry,” Jake breathes, scrubbing fingers through his hair. “It's ridiculous.”

“No—it's not, not at all. Even I'm spooked!” Dwight laughs away some of his nervousness. “So you really were out looking for her tonight?”

“Yeah. I've always gone for hikes, but these days she's always in the back of my mind. Tonight I couldn't sleep, so.”

“Oh God, I bet it was a shock to find me out there, then,” Dwight muses.

Something about Jake's hesitation to reply worries Dwight. “Yeah.”

Dwight tilts his head, confusion at Jake's reluctance apparent on his face.

Jake looks away, changes the subject. “You—we—should probably get some rest.” He wastes no time busying himself with putting away the food and dishes and turning out the lights. 

Soft glowing moonlight spills into the open blinds. It's nearly sunrise.

“Thanks again for letting me stay,” Dwight says, hovering awkwardly as Jake flits about. “And for the food. And water, and clothes, and—“

Jake spins on his heel to cut Dwight off with a stern look. “Stop thanking me.”

Dwight shuts up.

The next thing he knows he's laying a blanket out over the couch while Jake gets the lights in the living room. When he's settled onto the couch and Jake is hovering at the closed door to what Dwight assumes to be the bedroom, Dwight has to swallow the urge to thank him again.

“I... uh, goodnight,” Dwight says, feeble, emphatic. He doesn't feel like it's enough. Verbal gratitude doesn't adequately express how much all of this means to Dwight, everything Jake has done for him.

He twists his fingers together anxiously, numbly fighting the urge to stand up, march right over to the stranger that has shown him so much kindness, and hug him. Dwight doesn't do any such thing. Wouldn't. Can't.

“Night.” Jake replies easily. “Help yourself to... anything, really. The bookshelves, food. Whatever.”

“So hospitable,” Dwight stutters, because he means for it to be bold and teasing but he loses his courage one syllable in and it just resounds meek. Like everything about him.

Jake smiles—no, allows himself to smile. “Wake me up for any reason.”

Dwight knows the implications of that are innocent—like asking for assistance with something—but he can't help the way his face flushes.

“Thanks,” Dwight manages, and then winces, because Jake told him to stop saying that.

Jake just rolls his eyes and disappears into his bedroom, door closing behind him.

When Dwight's heart stops pointlessly racing, he settles down into the borrowed pillow, warm and comfortable in Jake's old clothes, feeling horribly smitten and deeply overwhelmed, wondering how something so eventful and nice-feeling could be happening to him.

It's not until Dwight is falling asleep, the house silent, bars of moonlight falling from the window across his blanket, that he realizes that Jake never offered to help him find his campsite—to find the coworkers he told Jake he got separated from. Shouldn't reuniting Dwight with his group have been Jake's first suggestion?

Against his will, Dwight thinks of the missing girl. Of the coworkers who allowed him to end up lost in the middle of the woods. Of Jake and how he never suggested the most obvious course of action—reuniting Dwight with his lost camping group. Of how nothing in Dwight's life ever goes right.

It's only exhaustion that lets him sleep.


	3. Can be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left their support via comment, it really keeps me going. ;w;
> 
>  **Slight trigger warning:**  
>  Both suicide and sexual assault are subjects mentioned in this chapter. (Sexual assault does not happen and is not implied to have happened, but it is a topic that is mentioned.)
> 
> Oh! And if anyone has any triggers that aren't common (or aren't already covered by the canon-typical subject matter of the game) and want me to watch for/tag, just let me know in a comment! I'd be happy to oblige.

Dwight doesn't wake until early afternoon. The sound of someone moving pots and pans around in the kitchen resounds easily through the small living space. 

He can't believe last night was real. Can't believe he's waking up on someone else's couch. 

_My first real sleepover_ , he thinks, his brief laugh of self-depreciation dissolving into a broken whine. The tears that try to form in his eyes are a result of how overwhelmed he is by the kindness he's been shown, rather than actual self-pity.

He sits up, scrubs at his eyes, his thighs and hips ache from how much walking he did yesterday. Still tired, he forces himself to get up, grab his glasses from a nearby bookshelf, and stumble uselessly towards the sounds and smells of a cooking breakfast.

The dread that kept him awake last night nags in the back of his mind—why hadn't Jake suggested reuniting him with his camping group? But any uneasiness melts away when he sees Jake at the stove, a simple denim apron tied around his middle.

“Hey,” Jake says, his brief glance catching just a little too long on Dwight's sleep-ruffled appearance.

Dwight runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, trying to tug it back into place. He should have found the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror before showing up at the breakfast table. At least Jake's hair doesn't look much better—Dwight wonders if the man ever brushes it at all.

“I'm frying eggs if you want some.”

“That would be nice,” Dwight says, feeling ineffectual and over-pampered. He doesn't deserve any of this. Still, he lowers himself into the booth.

The windows are open, bringing in a cool draft that smells like dewed grass and wet earth. A faint chorus of birds and insects filters in from the treeline outside while the autumn sun spills over the table, warming Dwight's arms.

Jake is looking groggy himself as he fries the eggs on auto-pilot, at one point just staring as they cook beneath the glass lid. His red long-sleeved flannel has holes worn into both elbows and his jeans aren't in any better shape, threads fraying in slits across his thighs.

The question that's been on Dwight's mind since last night is unsettling his stomach, wanting very much to come out. _Why didn't you offer to help me find the group I got separated from?_

He can't bring himself to ask.

Jake just probably didn't think about it.

When the eggs are plated and they're both eating at the table in a silence that would be comfortable if not for the growing anxiety in the pit of Dwight's stomach, Dwight finally attempts conversation.

“So why do you live all the way out here?” Dwight tactfully leaves off the words _by yourself._

Jake doesn't look up from his eggs, idly poking them with his fork. He's silent for so long that Dwight thinks that maybe he's not planning to respond at all. And then, “I like the outdoors. I like the solitude. The land was cheap. That's what I usually tell people.”

The hesitation there feels palpable—there's something else that Jake wants to say, but he's still deciding whether or not to share. It's got to be something personal. Why this guarded man is even considering sharing something personal with a stranger, Dwight doesn't know. But he finds it exhilarating. 

“Well, I can tell just from a few hours of knowing you that those things are true,” Dwight says cautiously, afraid to startle the other man away from the topic. “So you're not lying when you give that answer.”

“No,” Jake agrees. 

For a man that doesn't mind solitude there is a lot of loneliness behind the way he won't look up from his plate, the way he speaks like he's not sure why he's bothering. Dwight has all but forgotten his own breakfast, instead surreptitiously watching the man across the table. 

When Jake does finally look up he catches Dwight staring, holds his gaze effortlessly even though Dwight only grows more and more nervous under the scrutiny.

Jake blinks, looks away, this time out the window. “My parents moved here from Korea before I was born. My dad's been the CEO of his company since he was twenty-five, and the move overseas just made him richer.”

Dwight hums in acknowledgment, already seeing where the story is heading and half-stunned that Jake is even telling him any of this.

“The life he wanted for me wasn't what I wanted. I'm not sure I knew what I wanted—I didn't know who I really was behind all the stress of being told who I should be.”

The words click with Dwight, a piece of understanding he's been missing his whole life suddenly falling into place.

_I didn't know who I really was behind all the stress of being told who I should be._

Whatever it is about himself that doesn't allow him to fit in with his peers is something he's never been able to embrace, or even understand. All he's ever been able to do is struggle to live with himself under the crushing weight of knowing he's disliked and disrespected by everyone else. There are so many things that make him not good enough. He's never had the chance to actually get to know himself, let alone like himself. Never had enough breathing room to believe he's good enough despite what other people think.

“That's awful,” Dwight manages, pitying Jake, pitying himself.

“Yeah, so awful,” Jake mocks, bitter, “A brat with a rich and influential family who won't just accept the wealth and power that's being handed to him.”

That makes Dwight angry. “No—it's not fair what the world does to people like... people who don't fit in. How miserable it makes us feel for wanting something different. For _being_ something different, despite our best efforts.”

Jake sighs, defeated. “I know.”

“What you said, about not knowing who you were back then really hits home.” Dwight can't bring himself to look anywhere but the table. He can feel Jake's eyes on him. “I don't think I've ever gotten to know myself beyond _Dwight Fairfield: the unlikable, socially awkward reject screw-up who is a disappointment to all._ ”

The conversation is way more personal than anything Dwight's ever experienced, and he feels embarrassed by what he's shared, like it's too much, too boring.

“Dwight, eh?” Jake says, leaning back in his chair, startling Dwight into looking at him. “Dwight Fairfield.” He says the name like he's testing the sound of it in his mouth.

Dwight's confusion quickly dissolves into horror.

“Oh... oh!” He gasps, clamps a hand over his mouth, his next words are spoken through fingers, “I—oh my God. All this time—everything you've done for me—I haven't told you my name!”

Jake bursts out laughing so hard that he nearly doubles over, arms wrapping around himself to try to steady the force of his own amusement.

Dwight's face is burning with shame and embarrassment, he must be redder than he's ever been in his life. “I am _so, so, so, so,_ sorry, Jake.”

For some reason the apology makes Jake erupt into a new round of laughter just as he was starting to settle down.

“God, I can't do anything right,” Dwight groans, dropping his head into his hands. Hiding from his own blunder. 

“No—“ Jake abruptly sobers, hand shooting across the table to lightly touch Dwight's arm—an attempt at reassurance while he tries to catch his breath. “No. It's fine, you're fine. I just, it's just, I had been wondering how long it would take you to realize you hadn't told me. And your reaction was priceless. Adorable.”

Jake says that word so casually, like it's not the nicest thing anyone's ever said to Dwight.

And Dwight feels like a laggy computer—overloaded and overwhelmed, unable to do anything but stutter and freeze.

And Jake's fingers are still on his arm, warm, calloused, solid. 

Fuck.

He. He needs to calm down.

“I—uh, where's your bathroom?”

Jake blinks, removes his hand from Dwight's arm to point over his shoulder, down the hall beyond the kitchen. “End of the hall.”

“Thanks.” Dwight nearly stumbles over his own feet in his haste to exit the table, the room, this earth. The trip down the hallway is a blur and the next thing he knows he's shutting himself inside the small bathroom, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

He's a mess—skin flushed, visibly sweating. His face is such an awful mixture of dampness and heat that his glasses are fogging up around the bridge of the nose.

He's never been so attracted to someone in his life.

And certainly not after knowing them for such a short time.

He's never even held hands with someone, never dated. Never anything. 

At this point in his life he had assumed that the kind of future with romance and family just wasn't going to happen for him.

 _It still isn't_ , he reminds himself. Every crush Dwight's ever had has gone unrequited, not that he has had many, because few people are ever remotely civil towards him, let alone kind.

The last thing he needs is to ruin whatever tentative bond he's forming with the man in the woods by getting flustered every time Jake seems to enjoy his company.

“Keep it together,” he advises himself, turning on the sink and splashing water onto his face. “He's just a nice guy. No need to get all attention starved.”

But the truth is that he is attention starved, and every scrap Jake throws his way has him wagging his tail.

God, how had he been living his life without any meaningful human interaction? When had he started letting himself sleep-walk through the grind of working fifty hours a week and robotically going through a repetitive lonely routine in his free time? When had he become okay with that?

Shaking himself out of his self-loathing, he remembers the conversation he just had with Jake. 

No. He was never okay with it, never wanted to drift through a life without any fulfillment. He had never resigned himself to that. It was just what it took to survive. To keep going despite how unhappy he was. Is. Always has been.

And here he is running away from the first person who has ever tried to get to know him.

When Dwight finally works up the nerve to rejoin Jake in the kitchen, he finds the other man finishing up clearing dishes. 

Awkward but resolved, Dwight thrusts his hand in Jake's direction for a handshake. A proper introduction. Feeling ridiculous, he says, “Dwight. Dwight Fairfield. Nice to meet you.”

Jake stares, and then snorts, reaches out and takes Dwight's fingers in both of his hands, molding Dwight's outstretched hand into a fist instead. Jake promptly bumps his own fist against Dwight's, ignoring the confusion. 

“Jake Park,” he says, slyly.

Dwight wants to run and hide in the bathroom again. His heart is going to beat out of his chest. He just might throw up from the swirl of emotions surging through him.

“Oh,” Jake interjects, saving him. “I should go get you some real clothes to change into.”

And with that he's off. Classic Jake.

Dwight struggles to settle his ragged breath into something more acceptable until Jake returns with yet another stack of cloth offerings.

The pile seems to consist of cargo pants and a sweater. “Thanks.”

Jake waves off the gratitude. “You should shower first. I'm not complaining, but you were caked in quite a bit of mud and grass last night.”

Dwight cringes. “Yeah, you're right.”

Jake has yet to mention when he'll be taking Dwight back home. Dwight doesn't want him to.

*  
*  
*

Stripping down in the bathroom reveals quite a bit of flaky mud dried to his legs, and more surprisingly, aging bruises staining his abdomen, some of which he can only see with the help of the mirror. The ones on his back are the worst, spanning over his hips in deep blues and purples. The accompanying pain he had been blaming entirely on sore muscles more obviously belongs to the bruising when he touches his fingers to them and they protest after only minimal pressure.

Light scrapes also trail his skin in several places, easily attributed to twigs. The extent of the bruising frightens him. Had he really managed to bang himself up that badly, stumbling drunken into the woods after three sips of moonshine?

It's not like he had been too graceful on his frantic run through the woods after he woke up, either. Trees had definitely been bumped into, branches and bark whipping his arms as he flew through the forest.

Still...

Dwight knows he won't find any answers by continuing to spin in front of the mirror examining damage. He might not never know what the bruises are from. How he ended up alone in the woods.

It's best to just keep moving forward. Like always.

All of the bottles in Jake's shower are unlabeled and refillable; Dwight does his best to guess which ones go on his hair and which ones go on his body. Scrubbing his hair with Jake's natural smelling probably-shampoo feels wonderful even though the scrapes sting when the suds reach them. He doesn't realize how sticky the rain had made him feel all over until the spray rinses him clean.

He makes it quick, because though the steamy water is soothing, Dwight has no idea how much electricity he's wasting by draining the water heater. He hadn't heard any generators running last night, so the trailer probably stores its electricity in batteries somewhere. 

He changes into the cargo pants and sweater Jake provided, and when he opens the bathroom door it bumps against a pair of boots on the floor that Jake must have left for him. They appear to be made of some sort of animal skin, the insides are woolen, and when he puts them on they're beyond comfortable. They don't really seem that durable though, too soft all over to hold up to excess outdoor use. Especially in the middle of the woods. But they fit, mostly.

A hesitant search of the trailer reveals no sign of Jake. 

Feeling weird about being alone in someone else's house, Dwight creeps out the front door. He doesn't think Jake would have gone far.

The afternoon sun shines brightly as if in apology for last night's storms, but the grass is still wet, darkening the light colored leather of his boots as he steps into the grass.

In the daylight it's obvious how relatively new Jake's trailer looks. Couldn't be more than a decade old. Probably less, and well-kept at that. It has solar panels on the roof, which means Dwight was probably right about the house running off of a lot of expensive batteries.

Two thick trees grow near the house, a hammock tied between them. Dwight can too easily picture Jake lying in the hammock, gently swaying, reading a book.

There's a large, man-made dirt road that spans not far from Jake's front yard, disappearing into the trees. That must be the way to the main road. What had Jake said? A ten minute walk?

With no sign of Jake out front, Dwight heads around back, startling slightly when he catches a glimpse of a wild turkey walking out of the treeline in the distance. Just when he's caught up staring at the bird's dull feathers, a whistle sounds from far away.

Dwight turns abruptly to find Jake waving at him from the vegetable gardens across the field. It takes Dwight a good minute or two to cross the field and end up at Jake's side, shamefully breathless. Silently, Dwight blames his lack of stamina on his aching muscles form last night's exertion.

“That was,” Dwight tries, immediately regretting speaking for making it obvious how out of breath he is, “quite an impressive whistle. I'm surprised I could hear it from all the way over there.”

Jake simply grunts in response.

“I can't even whistle at all,” Dwight admits against his better judgment.

“I've got a lot of practice.” Jake says, turning to his crops, seeming to inspect them for damage. He must be concerned about the effects of last night's storm. “Used to whistle to find my little brother when we got separated during hikes.”

So Jake's brother is younger. “If only I wasn't an only child. Maybe then I would know how to whistle.”

Jake smiles, arms deep in a monstrous tomato plant.

“Does your brother visit often, then?”

The smile drops and Jake's expression is almost cold. “No.”

Yikes. “Ah—I'm sorry, I just assumed, because you said hiking, that...” That they must have enjoyed the activity together. And Jake lives in the middle of the woods. So... God, he's fumbling.

Jake doesn't reply. Doesn't look at him. Just rummages through the stems and leaves, pulling out the twigs that managed to blow into the plants last night.

Dwight bites his fingernails, a terrible nervous habit, and tries not to panic.

“The wind was bad yesterday,” Jake comments eventually. 

The change of subject make's Dwight's heart sink. He messed up.

“Are, are your vegetables okay?” He can't help his voice from cracking. He's so fucking nervous about Jake disliking him; sick with the fear of it.

At that, Jake eyes him gravely. “Yeah. The plants are fine. Resilient. I just don't like debris cluttering them—look,” he sighs, “About my brother, it's complicated. I'm not mad at you for asking. Quit looking so anxious.”

Caught off guard, Dwight laughs, nervous and broken. “You can tell?”

“How anxious you are? Of course.”

The _of course_ is more ominous than Jake could ever know. How many other people had noticed Dwight's flighty demeanor over the course of his life? “After high school people stopped commenting on it, so I thought...”

“That you were good at hiding it?”

Dwight nods.

“Maybe you usually are,” Jake shrugs.

It's better for Dwight if he convinces himself that's true. Besides, it's not like he feels such high stakes around his coworkers, or anyone else besides this guy who he just met and really, really wants to be friends with.

This whole twenty-four hours has been such a whirlwind that Dwight doesn't want to go back to his normal life. But when he does, as is inevitable, the thought of continuing to maintain a friendship with Jake makes his future seem like something worth looking forward to. Concretely. Maybe getting through the day, the snippy responses from his coworkers, the constant belittlement, won't be so bad if he knows one person—this person—is on his side. 

And he's getting ahead of himself. Because he doesn't even know if Jake will want to stay in contact with him after today.

“Hey,” Jake pushes gently on Dwight's shoulder, trying to snap him back to reality. “What's wrong?”

What's wrong is whatever delusions Dwight's been under about his future, about Jake, are crumbling fast. Once Dwight goes home he'll probably never hear from Jake again, either because Jake politely tells him to leave him alone, or because Dwight annoys the living hell out of him with tentative pestering.

Jake's just being nice because that's who he is. Like Linda the accountant. Like most people who give Dwight the time of day.

“Dwight?”

Jake isn't going to be his friend. Jake probably doesn't even like him now. There has to be a catch. Something Dwight is missing.

If the past is any indication, Dwight has read all the signals wrong. He suddenly feels like he's been a part of some big joke this whole time, and the punchline is looming. He should just ask to be taken home.

“Why didn't you offer to reunite me with my group?” Dwight asks suddenly, all instinct, no thought, no caution. “The coworkers I was camping with. I told you I got separated from them.”

Dwight knows his suspicion, the accusation, is palpable. He can see it on Jake's face—mild discomfort, a hint of sadness.

He can practically feel any tentative bond between them being burned to the ground by his quick mood shift, his deeply ingrained distrust. Some tiny voice of reason is gently reminding him that the distrust isn't Jake's fault—it's been part of him for a long time.

“Sorry,” Dwight says, dropping his head into his hands. “I don't know why I asked you that. It probably just didn't cross your mind.” 

Jake sighs. Dwight can't bring himself to look at him. “I—no, you're right to ask.”

“I probably just insulted your intelligence by implying that finding my group was the most obvious course of action.” And he did imply that—because why else would the whole thing be suspicious. Dwight isn't even sure what exactly he suspects. It just doesn't make sense. 

So it was probably just a mistake. Something that slipped Jake's mind. Jake's probably going to be embarrassed, like he was when he realized he'd forgotten to offer Dwight food and water like any hospitable person would do.

“I think need to apologize to you,” Jake says, surprising Dwight enough to make him meet his eyes. “At this point I feel like I've been lying.”

Jake's expression is unmistakably guilty. Dwight's heart pounds in confusion.

“I—didn't know how to tell you. And I thought maybe you already knew and didn't need the embarrassment of someone else bringing it up—“ Jake scratches at his neck, mildly disgruntled, looking angrier by the second. “You said you got separated from your coworkers, right?”

“Yeah.” Dwight can barely bring his voice above a whisper.

“Well, I saw what they were doing to you—dragging you into the woods like an animal. You were completely limp. I don't know what they were planning to do with you—hurt you, leave you, I don't know.”

Neither does Dwight. He had suspected there was ill will behind him waking up in the middle of the woods, though he hadn't fully let himself consider it. He's no stranger to that kind of treatment, prank, violence.

Before Dwight can settle his racing thoughts, Jake continues, “Based on the way they were talking, laughing, I assumed it wasn't just a group of friends playing a harmless prank.”

Dwight manages a grunt in response. He wants to laugh. Can't.

“So,” Jake takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I confronted them. They didn't like that.”

That pulls Dwight out of his own self-pity and his head snaps up. “What happened?”

“Well, when I didn't believe that they were _just playing around with their dear friend and employee_ , they got very angry—which was enough to make me think I needed to get you away from them. But there were five of them.”

Sounds like the right number for Brad and his buddies. So it wasn't everyone, then. Why had the others let that happen, let Dwight be taken off into the woods by people everyone knew looked down on him? Dwight's pulse is rushing sickeningly loud, his stomach in a knot.

“I actually had to chase them off,” Jake laughs at that. “With a stick.” At Dwight's horrified expression, Jake amends, “It was self-defense. They started throwing punches pretty quickly.”

“Are you okay?”

Jake stares for what feels like forever. “I just told you that some of your coworkers were dragging you through the woods in the middle of the night, planning to abandon you there for a laugh at best, and you're asking me if _I'm_ okay?”

“Yeah, that is what I'm asking,” Dwight says, firmer, sounding more miffed than he means to. “Are you okay?”

Jake scoffs.

“That's not an answer.”

“Yeah. Bloody nose, that's it,” Jake says, bewildered. “What about you? Are you okay?”

Dwight thinks about the scratches and bruising he found in the shower that he had let himself assume was from his own lack of grace while running through the woods. Best case scenario is that those are there because Brad and Co. didn't care about being gentle while they were dragging him through the underbrush. 

He will have to quit his job. He's been working his way up at the company since he was nineteen.

“I'm okay,” he manages eventually.

Jake's brows knit, concern doubling. “No. Nothing about this is okay.”

Dwight just shrugs, feeling the tears coming.

His belt was still buckled when he woke up in the woods. His shirt still mostly tucked in. That's the only thing giving him any sense of relief. What in the world were they planning to do to him? Why do people always feel like they have the right to do whatever they want to him? Why didn't the bullying stop after high school? How much more of his life will he have to endure this kind of treatment?

There's nothing that's going to stop the sobbing. So Dwight gives in to it, shakily lowering himself to the damp ground, hiding his face against his knees.

He can feel Jake hesitate and then kneel next to him.

“I should have just told you what I saw,” Jake says, voice bitter with the thought of what he'd witnessed. “But I... I don't know. I wanted to make sure you were okay first. I panicked pretty hard after I chased those guys off—I went back to where they'd left you but you were gone.”

“You tracked me through the woods?” Dwight asks between wracking breaths.

“Not very well. I'm usually a pretty good tracker—but the rain was really pouring.” He pauses. “I wouldn't have given up until I found you.”

Why? Why say that? “Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you do all of this for me?” Dwight hates how whiny he is through the tears and snot. “You could have just walked away—”

“Quiet, you,” Jake says, voice firm, like Dwight's questions aren't even worth addressing. “Am I allowed to give you a hug?”

At that, Dwight sobs harder.

“Shit—sorry,” Jake says in a rush. “Forget I asked.”

“No—no, no—please do,” Dwight struggles to amend through the sobs.

And Jake does, scooting closer and pulling Dwight sideways against him, cold fingers cupping over Dwight's hair, holding Dwight's head against his chest.

It's not what Dwight expected. Very close. Solid. Parental, like his mother used to hold him on the rare occasions she decided to be emotionally present. He wonders how Jake has the ability to know just how to hold someone to make them feel safe. Maybe because he's an older brother. Maybe his life hasn't always been as lonely as living alone in the middle of the woods would suggest.

The autumn air is chilly, the breeze strong, audibly rustling the tomato plants around them, making them sway. And Jake's body is so, so warm.

“How am I ever going to go back to work?” Dwight mutters against Jake's shirt when his sobs die down. “I'll have to quit. There's no way I can face them again. Even if I report this, no one will care. I'll be jobless. How am I going to go back home? That job was my entire life.” It's a pathetic thing to admit, but his tears are silent this time, hot as the bleed into Jake's red flannel.

“You don't have to go home until you're ready,” Jake reassures in a hush that rustles Dwight's hair. “I'll take you home when you're ready.”

The sobs are back. “Why are you doing this for me?” This time the question is a demand. 

“Because,” Jake starts, and then hesitates. “Because I can tell you need it. And... I wish someone had been there for me, when I was at my lowest. No one had been, and that was dangerous.”

Dwight doesn't need to ask what Jake means by _dangerous_. He already knows too well.

Dwight pulls away so he can look at Jake, whose expression is somber. That's right. Not everyone has had an easy life. Jake's already said that he struggled to grow up under immense family pressure.

Stoic, solid Jake has enough in common with Dwight to make him empathetic to Dwight's crisis. So why did Jake turn out okay, and Dwight so pathetic and empty?

“Thank you,” Dwight scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt, momentarily skewing his glasses. “For understanding.”

Jake snorts, untangling from Dwight, giving him space. “I'm just sorry that I didn't tell you all of this sooner. I probably came off as more perceptive than I really am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, I normally wouldn't've helped some random stranger lost in the woods. Not like I helped you.” He laughs. “Actually, I'd have probably told them to get the hell off of my property.”

“You know,” Dwight actually laughs, “I could kinda tell that about you—this whole time I've been wondering why you've been so nice when your whole lifestyle screams _leave me the heck alone._ ”

“Heh. Yeah. After witnessing what I did... and you being so nervous, and saying you don't have any friends—well, I forced myself to open up a lot more than I'm comfortable with. My conscious wouldn't let me just take you home and be done with it.”

So Jake had been pointedly trying to make friends with Dwight, rightfully assuming him to be a charity case. It's not like he's wrong. But there it is again, the common factor that makes most people treat him with any manner of decency: pity.

Jake was too good of a person to pretend he didn't recognize Dwight as a lonely man in need of a shoulder to cry on.

He's a burden. Always.

“I'm sorry.” 

“I'm glad I did what I did.” Jake says, looking at the plants, the sky, anything but Dwight. “All of it.”

It's as close to a _I'm glad I met you. I liked getting to know you,_ as Dwight's ever gotten.

Dwight can't look away from Jake's face, the way his worried eyes flit to Dwight, as if to check on him. Jake fails to tear his gaze away, probably because Dwight is fighting tears again, pathetic and in obvious need of tending, support. Like the wind-blown tomato plants who can't pick themselves back up, prune the death from their bent leaves, the debris from their roots. 

Jake studies Dwight for a long moment before his tension drains and he lifts one arm, beckoning with the slight curl of his fingers, inviting Dwight for another embrace.

It's doubly hard for Dwight to fight back the tears; something about that calms Jake from worry to gentle confidence. 

And Dwight accepts the invitation like a trust fall, burying his head against the still tear-soaked fabric of Jake's chest. He can't bring himself to wrap his arms around Jake in return, he's afraid to move, afraid to let himself be held like this.

“Everything can turn out okay,” Jake mutters; Dwight can feel Jake's voice against his face. “We'll figure something out.”

Jake doesn't say it _will_ turn out okay, he says that it _can._

And somehow, that makes the world of difference.


End file.
